


knife bros [pt. 1]

by spacestationtrustfund



Series: knife bros [1]
Category: Marked - A.Z., The Magpie Ballads - Vale Aida
Genre: Bad Decisions, Flirting, Knives, M/M, Meet-Cute, the knife bros aesthetic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2018-08-18 12:54:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8162684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacestationtrustfund/pseuds/spacestationtrustfund
Summary: If everyone had a fatal flaw, Shiv’s was pretty things. (A piece of the suave grunge bird story.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dirtybinary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtybinary/gifts).



> As of now, neither of the universes portrayed in this story exist, as the story in of itself is a crossover of my and Val's novels, with the relationship being a character from each of our books. The expected audience for this story is about four people, two of whom are me and Val.

If everyone had a fatal flaw, Shiv’s was pretty things.

 _Magpie,_ Saskia liked to call him, because she would. But Shiv saw nothing wrong with aesthetics, even though they were likely to get him killed some day. A rich purple brocade, a glittering glass bracelet, a shiny steel knife with a pearly handle—Shiv collected pretty things the way Lix collected kills.

As it so happened, life was fleeting. Shiv contemplated this as he sat on the rooftop one warm summer eve and twisted a length of fine silver thread through his fingers. Life was fleeting, and they were all going to die eventually, probably sooner rather than later in his case, and in such a world who could fault him for wanting to surround himself with beauty?

A flash of movement caught his eye, and Shiv leaned forwards, twisting the thread tightly in his hand. Down on the streets below him, someone in a concealing cloak was walking a bit too rapidly to be entirely casual. Fleeing or hunting? It hardly mattered; an adventure was an adventure, and Shiv was bored enough to be restless.

He did what anyone would do: He shoved the scrap of thread into the pocket containing his second-best knife—his best having been stolen by Saskia at least two years past, the fact of which Shiv was still sullenly digesting—and got swiftly to his feet. The hooded entity looked furtively around, then took up a brisk walk into Deadman’s Alley.

This piqued Shiv’s interest. Deadman’s Alley was, in re the name, a notoriously macabre corner of the city into which few self-respecting citizens dared to venture. A street lined with taverns, butcheries, whorehouses, and theatres—each worse than the last—promised nothing but trouble.

Shiv happen to like trouble quite a lot.

Was it possible to have two fatal flaws? If so, Shiv mused, they would likely compete as to which could do him in first. Or perhaps it would be a combination thereof, a collaboration of sorts.

He ran lightly to the other side of the roof, then steeled his nerves and leapt. His boots struck the surface of the adjacent rooftop first; the impact jarred into his bones. Shiv shook himself, mentally and then bodily, and crouched down to locate the target.

Whoever it was, the person was eager not to be caught. Shiv’s eyes snagged on the bright glint of a blade, revealed as the stranger’s cloak flapped in the draft caused by the hasty pace. This was enough: shiny things were Shiv’s ultimate weakness.

“Well, it was nice knowing you, me,” Shiv muttered under his breath, and launched himself over the side of the roof.

Shiv twisted as he fell and grabbed for the first protruding lip of the highest window. His gloved fingers scrabbled for a hold, and held. Holding his breath—which made altogether too many things being held—Shiv let himself dangle until the tips of his boots brushed the shutters of the next window, then dropped. He once again clung to the frame, then lowered himself down; the third window was the last, and Shiv landed not ungracefully on the broken brick of Deadman’s Alley.

The hooded figure was standing in front of the apothecary, peering at the sign. Shiv couldn’t hold back a snort. The sign, weather-worn and badly hewn, was nothing special in of itself; the apothecary, however, was a master of poisons.

 _That,_ Shiv had confessed upon learning of the career’s existence, _seems like something I could see myself doing for an income._

His mother, bless her heart, had cuffed him soundly about the ears with the flat of her knife. _You’re too impulsive for planned killing, Shivke. Stick to knives, for now._

Good times, good times. But she had been right, as usual: Shiv was nothing if not impulsive, and no one would be foolish enough to call _him_ nothing. What was that now—three fatal flaws? That had to be some kind of record.

“If you’re looking for poisons, my friend,” Shiv called out, strolling leisurely in the direction of the cloaked stranger, “may I suggest a dictatorship? I find it to be the best form of government to use as a tool when one wishes to murder one’s opposition.”

“Do you, now,” said the other; his voice was low but clear, and bewitchingly melodious. “Well, in that case, do you know of a shop which sells corrupt rulers? I may as well throw in a few of those, for flavour.”

Oh, this had been a marvellous idea. “I don’t know of any offhand,” Shiv admitted, “although, if you have time to visit Kings’ Palace, ah, there’s corruption aplenty.”

“I’m only in town for a short time, I’m afraid, although I’m told a week is more than enough time to get done what I want to get . . . done.” The stranger looked appraisingly back at the sign. “Travels, and all that associated damage. I came for a rosebush, and yet here I am, overstaying my welcome and buying poison.”

“Iaelia is not particularly known for its rosebushes,” Shiv said, frowning.

“Iaelia is not particularly known for much of anything, I hear.”

“That’s true,” admitted Shiv.

The stranger turned towards him slightly, revealing a sliver of a smile. “Are you always so brutally honest? It’s a charming quality, I must say, although I doubt it will win you any favours in your dictatorship.”

“I’m as honest as the day is long,” said Shiv, restraining from commenting on the ‘favours’ part.

The smile grew. “It’s night.”

“That it is.”

“So do you lie?”

Shiv shrugged, barely able to keep from smiling himself. It was terribly enjoyable to match wits when he had everything to lose. “It’s in my nature. I am a man. Men lie.”

“That they do. Should I repay you, then, with falsehoods?”

“I would prefer coin, if you have any,” Shiv said. “Or weapons; I seem to be lacking my best knife.”

“I’m afraid I have no currency worth anything,” said the stranger. “I was hoping to barter for my poisons. And as for knives—Kings’ City is a funny little place, isn’t it? I hear the black market is more common than the honest industry; the thieves and honest men share meals; the assassins are honest and the nobility lies.”

“You could define ‘honest,’” Shiv suggested.

“That I could.”

Shiv slid a hand into his pocket and toyed with the silver scrap of thread. “You said you were visiting only for a short time. What brings you here—to Iaelia, to Kings’ City, to this part of town? And how come you speak Iaelian, if you haven’t been here long?”

“I have a natural talent for language. In fact, I am gifted in many . . . areas.” The stranger looked Shiv up and down. Shiv recognised the look; it was the cold-eyed appraisal of a killer about to decide where to stick the knife so as to make it hurt the most. “As I have said, I voyaged here to buy a rosebush.”

“It must be a very special rosebush.”

“It is,” the stranger said dryly.

Shiv raised one shoulder, then lowered it. “If you told me more about it, I might be able to help you. I know practically every corner of his city the way I know the grooves and nicks on my knife. I could help, if you told me.”

“Tell you—when you haven’t even trusted me with your name!”

“It’s unwise to trust someone in Kings’ City,” said Shiv, “and you haven’t trusted me with yours, either.”

This earned him a laugh, short and abrupt, as if drawn out through surprise. “You are quick-witted.”

“I know,” Shiv said, pleased. The voice in his head, which he knew was his conscience but sometimes amusingly pretended was Saskia, was warning him not to give too much away; Shiv, however, had never been good with following advice—five fatal flaws. “My name’s Shiv.”

“Apt,” was all that was commented. “I’m Savonn. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Shiv. I do hope we can get to know each other better.”

“First let’s see about that rosebush of yours,” Shiv reminded him.

Savonn smirked. It was a smirk somewhere between _danger_ and _death_ , right where Shiv liked it. “If you’re helping me, I must give you something in return, and as I have no coin of any value and dislike public scenes, here.” He pressed something shiny into Shiv’s hands.

Metal glittered in the weak evening light as Shiv turned the blade over. “I hear you need a knife,” Savonn said, and winked.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Zelda.

“Everything,” pronounced Savonn with the heavy gloom of one who knows he is condemned, “is terrible.”

“Surely not everything,” Emaris protested. He was a practical soul, despite the frequent admonishments from court members who believed his head was permanently stuck in the clouds. Emaris would have preferred this; he would finally be taller than Savonn, not to mention having a lovely view. “There’s always  _something_  good.”

“Knives,” said Savonn, glowering. “Thorns. Swords. Have I mentioned that everything is horrible?”

“Twice,” said Emaris, and put a hand gently on Savonn’s shoulder. Savonn twitched, but didn’t push him away. “I have a suggestion, to help your mood, and to remind you that there are good things in the world.”

Savonn rolled his eyes. “Thorn bushes.”

“Not quite,” said Emaris, and gestured furtively to the nearest servant to lead them to the animal kennels.

“A proper menagerie,” said Savonn, the scowl still affixed to his face like a moth pinned to a board. “You didn’t wish for me to see the horses or the falcons, did you – ”

Emaris stopped in front of the wire runs and knelt. “Here,” he said, and deposited an armful of fluff into Savonn’s arms.

Savonn looked taken aback for a shocked moment before he recovered himself and settled the rabbit more comfortably in the crook of his elbow. “A rabbit.”

“Yes,” Emaris agreed. “He’s just a baby. I named him after you.”

Savonn didn’t say anything; he buried his face in the rabbit’s silky fur and sighed.

Emaris scooped up another rabbit and cuddled it to his chest. “This one’s named after Shandei,” he explained, watching the rabbit with one eye and Savonn with the other. “It’s got a temper, this one does.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](spacestationtrustfund.tumblr.com).


End file.
